Shooting Elvis (15 page)

Nine o’clock Friday morning I rang Smart Solutions. Bernie Smart was an old superintendent of mine who left under a cloud after a bribery scam involving one of his sergeants. Bernie’s as straight as Watling Street, but mud sticks and he left. He formed a security company called Hawkeye Security, but soon learned that a more low-key profile was required for the work that was coming his way, and Smart Solutions was born. I rang him because I needed information about industrial espionage. It was something we rarely became involved with. I’d always imagined it was high-tech stuff, involving computer files, micro-photography and sleepers planted in companies for years, but now I was having second thoughts. I remembered reading about Russia’s Tupolev 144, which was their answer to Concorde. It looked just like the Concorde, which wasn’t surprising as, if the stories are true, a French spy had furnished them with the blueprints. The Tupolev flew a couple of months before the Concorde, but it ended in tears at the Paris air show in 1973 when it crashed, killing the crew and several people on the ground. Know-alls and conspiracy theorists claim that faults had been deliberately built into the stolen blueprints, and the Russians had copied the plans, faults and all, with fatal results. It’s probably all bunkum, but that’s the sort of world I imagined industrial spies to move in. I was wrong.

‘There was this company in Slough that made
babies’ dummies,’ Bernie told me after we’d exchanged insults, had the obligatory five minutes of reminiscing and I’d explained my problem.

‘Dummies?’ I echoed.

‘That’s right. What the Americans call comforters. They made them by the million and sold them all over the country. Every chemist’s shop in the land had one of their display cards with the dummies on it. But all of a sudden their sales went into sharp decline. People were having just as many babies but the orders weren’t coming in. So the MD went on the road to see what the problem was. It was a small family business and he was a hands-on type of guy. Well, he couldn’t see where things were going wrong. Everywhere he went he saw their dummies prominently displayed and the shopkeepers assured him that they were turning them over, as before. Until one day he noticed a card filled with blue dummies. The thing was, they’d never made any blue dummies. Turned out they were being copied somewhere in the Far East, right down to the last detail of the packaging, and the market had been flooded with them, undercutting the originals.’

I said, ‘Strewth! You can’t get more low-tech than a baby’s dummy.’

‘That’s right, Charlie, but copying the product is the easy bit. You just buy one and give it to your engineers. It’s the sales and distribution where the inside information is essential. Ask any
businessman. Who is the market? What do they pay? What quantities are we talking about? When you know those things you have a flying start. And it’s much easier to pay a bent employee a few thousand pounds for the information than to spend millions on research and development and building up a customer base.’

‘So our man didn’t just give them the product, he was passing on details about customers?’

‘You’ve got it, but guess what.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not illegal. He wasn’t breaking the law.’

Three weeks into a murder enquiry questions are asked. The ACC (Crime) was going on holiday to his villa in the Algarve the following week, so he called the meeting a couple of days early. He was anxious that the division be seen as pioneers with the HMET initiative, and wanted to put us all up on our toes. As always, it was more out of
self-promotion
and preservation than any desire to see justice done. He came to see us, which is a change, at short notice, which isn’t. I heard about the meeting ten minutes early, and barely had a chance to change into a sober tie for the occasion. The one with tiny Homer Simpsons on it that Dave’s daughter bought me last Christmas.

At ten seconds to ten I paused outside Gilbert’s office, knuckle poised, until I heard the first chime of St. Saviour’s church clock, over the road. I
knocked briskly and swung the door open.

The ACC and Mr Wood were enjoying a laugh with someone that I didn’t recognise at first. They coughed and spluttered but didn’t offer to share the joke. ‘Have you met Superintendent Stanwick, Charlie?’ the ACC asked.

‘We’ve talked on the phone,’ I said, shaking the proffered hand. He tried to crush my fingers to show what a straightforward type of fellow he was, but I forgot to do the Masons bit.

‘I offered Charlie a job,’ Stanwick said, ‘but he wouldn’t bite. Don’t know why. That was a first class presentation you did on Wednesday, Charlie. First class.’

‘Sorry, Mr Stanwick,’ I said, ‘but it’s not for me.’

‘Mark, please,’ he protested. ‘And we have met before.’

‘Have we?’

‘Long time ago. When we were both on the up. The strange case of Old Mother Twanky.’ He turned to the ACC and Gilbert to explain. ‘Old Mother Twanky spontaneously combusted. All that was left of her was a pile of ashes, one hand and a foot. Strangest thing you ever saw. I was duty sergeant and arrived a few seconds before Charlie came and took over. He was a rooky inspector, if my memory serves me well. No doubt Charlie has forgotten all about it, but I haven’t.’

I hadn’t forgotten all about it. I remember the name of every victim I was ever involved with.
Edith Tweddle wasn’t murdered, but I still remembered her. It was the names of ambitious cops on the up that I forgot.

‘It was a long time ago,’ I said.

‘Can we talk about the case, please,’ Gilbert protested. ‘I have other places to go.’

‘Mind if I sit in?’ Stanwick asked. ‘See what’s happening at the sharp end, eh?’

We didn’t mind, and I spent the next half-hour explaining the avenues of investigation that we were following. I told them all about the bad blood that existed between Smallwood and Alfred, and then about Alfred’s secret income and the possibility that he was involved in some sort of low level industrial espionage.

‘And you reckon that’s not illegal?’ Gilbert asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I’m informed that it needn’t be. If Alfred was photocopying documents it could be construed as stealing, or if he was copying computer files he might be breaching the Data Protection Act, but if he was simply making notes and passing the information on, then there’s nothing we can do. It’s a grey area and is usually sorted out in the civil court.’

The ACC put his hands over his ears, saying, ‘Don’t talk to me about the Data Protection Act.’

After that I told them about Alfred’s uncanny resemblance to the Midnight Strangler, about Brian Bousfield’s outburst in court and his association
with the local chapter of the Hell’s Angels. They asked questions, I tried to answer them. We kicked things around, didn’t come up with any conclusions. But that wasn’t the purpose of the exercise. The ACC wanted to go on holiday with a clear conscience and I wanted him off my back. In those respects, it was a successful meeting.

‘So what’s happening with the Hell’s Angels?’ the ACC asked.

‘I’ve handed them over to Lincoln,’ I said. ‘They’re looking at individuals named by Bousfield as his alibi. And we’ve had a word with SOCA’s biker gang expert. It’s a bit far to keep dashing down there, but we’ll have to spend some time with them when we have some more information.’

‘I’m glad you’re keeping an eye on the expenses, Charlie,’ the ACC said.

‘Do you think Smallwood could have done it?’ Gilbert asked.

I sat silent for a few seconds, then said, ‘I don’t know, boss. He’s weird, that’s for sure. He fits the template, but whether he’d have the balls to do a murder is another thing.’

‘What’s your gut feeling, Charlie?’ Stanwick asked.

I shook my head. ‘I don’t have gut feelings. I go where the evidence points.’

‘Spoken like a professional,’ he said.

‘Have you asked the economic crime unit to look into the dealings at Ellis and Newbold’s?’ the ACC asked.

‘I’ve asked, but they were reluctant as there’s no complainant.’

‘Were they? Well ask again on Monday and I think you’ll find them more eager to help.’

‘Right. Thanks.’

He stood up to leave and we all did the same. ‘Before you go,’ Gilbert said, diving into his desk drawer and producing a bunch of tickets, ‘who’d like a ticket for the Rotary spring ball, tomorrow night?’ He turned to Stanwick, saying, ‘Two for you, Mark? It’s all in a good cause.’

Stanwick grinned sheepishly and went for his wallet. ‘Oh, if it’s for a good cause. How much?’

‘Only forty pounds the pair.’ He turned to the ACC. ‘And can I interest you, boss?’

‘Not for me, Gilbert,’ he said. ‘We’ll be busy packing.’

Stanwick handed Gilbert two twenties with all the grace of a juvenile orang-utan surrendering its last banana to the alpha male. I said my goodbyes and went downstairs.

Jeff and Maggie were in the big office. ‘Any great breakthroughs, boss?’ Maggie asked.

‘What do you think? At least we’re still on the case, and the ACC goes on holiday for two weeks on Sunday.’ I told them about Gilbert slow-timing forty quid out of Stanwick, which raised smiles all round. ‘What about you, Jeff? Anything I need to know about?’

‘Nah. You can sleep easy. I’ve got Terry Hyson downstairs. I’m letting him stew for a while.’

‘Hyson? Hyson?’ I said. ‘Remind me.’

‘Angie’s ex-boyfriend, of Angie’s sex shop fame.’

‘Ah, that Terry Hyson. What does he have to say for himself?’

‘He says he didn’t do it. Denies everything. I’ve threatened him with an ASBO and the sex offenders’ register, but he won’t accept a caution. Says it wasn’t him, so why should he?’

An adult caution, or reprimand, is an admission of guilt. It is not regarded as having a criminal record, but we keep it on file for at least five years, and the recipient has to declare it to a prospective employer, if asked. An ASBO is an anti-social behaviour order and requires a lower standard of proof than a criminal conviction.

‘Has he any other form?’

‘Causing an affray, that’s all. He was in a punch-up outside the Lamb and Flag, back in 2002.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Like I said, I’m letting him stew. If he’s still adamant I’ll let him go. He reckons she’s had several boyfriends since him, and it’s one of them. He did it the first time; they’re just copying him. I’d better get down there.’

‘Want me to have a word?’

‘Yep. That’s fine by me. Then kick him out, please.’

I went downstairs. At the front desk I said, ‘Got any fags, Arthur?’

‘Not sure,’ he replied, pulling a drawer open. The nick is a non-smoking area for the staff, which is OK because just about all of us are non-smokers, but visitors and detainees are allowed to smoke. The right to give cancer to yourself and anybody near you is a civil liberty, and we’re big on civil liberties. Sometimes there’s a packet of cigs at the front desk, used to pacify distraught victims or prisoners who are gnawing their knuckle joints in despair.

‘Here we are, Chas,’ I was told as a crumpled Benson and Hedges packet was produced. ‘Just a couple left.’ I took them from him, with a plastic lighter, and went to the interview room where Terry Hyson was patiently waiting.

He didn’t know it, but I had a certain admiration for him. Modifying the sign over Angie’s shop as an act of revenge was something I could imagine myself doing. There was a certain wit to it. He was slumped in the plastic chair, head in his hands, and hadn’t put any weight on since our last meeting.

‘Hello Terry, remember me?’ I asked, taking a seat opposite him and sliding the fags across the table.

He looked up, red marks on his face where his fingers had been pressed. ‘Yeah,’ he replied, ‘it’s Mr Priest, innit?’

‘That’s right. It was me who cautioned you, over a year ago. I hoped we wouldn’t see you again. You’ve let me down, Terry. When I caution someone they’re supposed to stay cautioned.
Otherwise it looks bad on my record. Have a fag.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Priest,’ he said, ‘but I haven’t let you down.’ He took one of the flattened cigarettes from the packet and put it in his mouth. The lighter fired second flick. ‘It wasn’t me did it this time. They were just copying me. She’s a slag, and I’m better off without ’er. I see that now.’ He tipped his head back and sent a long plume of smoke up towards the ceiling.

‘I believe DS Caton told you that you could expect an ASBO if it went to the magistrates? Do you know what that would mean?’

‘Yeah. I’d be banned from going down Main Street or anywhere near Angie. Something like that, but I’m not admitting something I didn’t do.’

We talked for ten minutes. He stubbed the cigarette in the tin-lid ashtray and asked if he could have the last one. I asked him if he was working and he said he was waiting to go on a bricklaying course when the new term started. He didn’t know anything about who was selling drugs or about any of the day-to-day petty crime that besets any modern market town. I told him to let me know if he heard anything.

‘Off you go, then, Terry,’ I said, standing up. ‘I’ll believe you, thousands wouldn’t, but you owe me.’

We walked along the corridor to the foyer. Eddie Carmichael and Superintendent Stanwick were standing just inside the door, talking like bosom buddies. I saw Terry off the premises, flapped a
hand at the two of them and ran upstairs, three at a time. Since I started serious training it hardly makes me puff.

‘I’ve kicked him out,’ I told Jeff, after I’d made myself a tea. ‘He may have been telling the truth.’

‘Or maybe he’s lying like a toad to hide a broken heart,’ Maggie suggested.

‘Ah,’ I said, after taking a tentative sip of
near-boiling
tea, ‘you know what they say about broken hearts, Margaret.’

‘No, Charles,’ she replied. ‘What do they say about broken hearts?’

I’d backed myself into a corner so I came out with it. ‘They say that if there’s one thing worse than having a broken heart, it’s never having had a broken heart.’

There was a silence as it sank in, until Maggie asked, ‘So who said that?’

‘I did.’